


The Primrose Path

by CarlyChameleon



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Character Development, Crisis of Faith, Dark Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasy, God(dess) of Death, Magic, Multi, Original Fiction, Original Mythology, Original Universe, Religious Conflict, Revenants, Sexual Tension, Undead, Vampires, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarlyChameleon/pseuds/CarlyChameleon
Summary: When his village is taken captive by an enemy nation, Illuminator Lê Thịnh Ân's priority is to make sure his people survive to fight another day. Faced with everything he's stood against as a priest to Cyanos, god of light and life, Ân prays for the strength to overcome and do what he must. It's not long before he receives signs that his petitions have been heard.Just not by the deity he'd been expecting.
Relationships: (Minor) God/Their Favored Human
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruis/gifts).



> First, I apologize this isn't technically a completed work. My idea immediately grew to a size I couldn't manage to write down in a month. However, assuming you like the general concept enough, I have plenty of chapters planned out and will post as I finish them (which I will, cross my heart). I kind of wound up throwing several elements of your other requests in there I think, if that helps make up for anything.
> 
> Also, the tags about vampires and revenants and whatnot are there because some of the characters who show up are those types of creatures. The MC, though, is human and the deity in question, while patron of death, isn't undead themselves. Just thought I'd make that clear since I recall there being a DNW mention on that. 
> 
> Anyway, don't hesitate to ask about anything you may be wondering or poke me to write faster.

The enemy caught them in a clearing, just after they’d finished performing noon prayers. He didn’t regret stopping. Judging from the grim but resolved faces around him, neither did his people. Not even the children whimpered, though, naturally, they clung to their families as the circle of mounted soldiers closed in. His eyes flitted to each Mortigean as they came trotting from the trees. None bore any grafted limbs, thank Cyanos. No tails draped down over their saddles. Not a single horn or tusk sprouted through their battered helmets either. More important, their wickedly curved sickle-swords and less flashy yet no less effective short ones remained sheathed. Well. Perhaps perversions such as extra body parts were reserved for Mortigean nobility. Equipment cost enough as it was—commissioning a cuirass to accommodate four arms, or sandals for bird feet would likely be a nightmare. Despite the doom surrounding them, his mouth twitched with an improbable smile.

At about fifteen paces, one of the Mortigeans raised a closed fist. The others reined in their mounts. Enough space remained between each horse for a person to run though. Whether they’d be quick enough to avoid being hacked down was another matter. To his relief, none of his people tested their luck.

The soldier in charge nudged their tall chestnut mount forward. His people shuffled back, but he remained rooted to his spot, reckoning what came next. Sure as sunrise, the Mortigean stopped almost within touching range. Their attention fell on him and both took a minute to size each other up.

No beard grew on the soldier’s chin or the jawline he could see beneath their helm’s cheekguards. A woman, as far as initial impressions told him. One who was long, lean, and brown as the loam of the forest, like most Mortigeans. Older than him, but not by more than ten years as far as he could tell. Large eyes the color of smoke and filled with a lifetime’s share of weariness met his. She took in the columns upon columns of scripture adorning his exposed—as well as currently hidden—skin. Scripture he'd retraced every week since his ordination twelve summers past with a paste of clay and honey before sitting in the morning sun to meditate. Beige against deep golden-tan, the words stood out as clearly as ink on paper.

“Priest?” Her inflection almost warped the word into a different one, but he had to give the soldier credit. Most outsiders were too intimidated to even attempt speaking his native language because of the different tones involved.

“Yes,” he replied, embarrassed for an absurd moment that he didn’t have a clue how to do so in Mortigean. “I serve Cyanos.”

The name had several of the other Mortigeans spitting onto the ground. It provoked nothing more than a nod from their leader. She lifted her arm to point to the long black and brown striped plumes sprouting from her helm.

“ _Aleqa.”_ She lowered her finger to her segmented cuirass. “Ife.”

Ah. Rank and name. A good sign—people didn’t typically introduce themselves to those they intended to murder, not even in Mortigany.

Setting a hand on his chest, he noted his thundering heartbeat. “Lê Thịnh Ân.”

The soldier, Ife, considered that a moment. “Tin Un _?_ Priest Tin Un?”

“Close enough.” At least she understood their given names came after their family ones and had tried to maintain a sense of formality.

She nodded at the people behind him, who instinctively crowded together tighter, children shielded at their center. “Are running from Sern?”

“Yes. A messenger rode into the village before dawn to warn us you were coming.”

Ife’s mouth mimicked a smile, but sadness shaped every other line on her face. “To where?”

Ân could barely lift his shoulders in a shrug from the burden pressing down on them. “Away from the border. Away from the fighting.” Taking a deep breath, he did his best to keep his next words from rushing out. “Are you going to kill us?”

Shaking her head, the soldier spoke a string of words in her own language. Ân understood just the last three—a name—but they explained everything.

Phan Thí Tiên.

It was his people’s turn to spit on the leaves underfoot. While Ân understood their reactions, he was all too aware that The Exile Queen’s soft spot for her former homeland was the only thing sparing them from the sword. Or worse.

Despite the sunshine beaming into the clearing, Ân shuddered. “Are you going to damn us?”

Tilting her head, Ife fixed him with a puzzled stare. His hands shaking even as he reflected how silly he must look, Ân pointed to the sickle sword sheathed at her hip, drew a finger across his throat, then lifted his arms straight out in front of him, doing his best to mimic the blank expression of someone who’d had their soul ripped away by dark sorcery. More than likely he just looked like a queasy drunkard.

Guffaws and snickers broke out among the Mortigeans. While Ife silenced them with a hiss, he caught the way her lips kept trying to wiggle up into a smile.

“No,” she told him. “Taking all. Moving.”

“Where?”

In answer, he received a shrug and apologetic grimace. Knowledge above her rank, apparently. Ân bit the inside of his cheek to keep from yelling something foolish at the Mortigeans. They marched in from their light-forsaken country, drove his people—simple woodcrafters, hunters, artisans, all with families, with children, with elders, with sick—out of their homes. And they hadn’t even thought to ask their superiors what might become of their captives.

Then again, they’d have to care enough to wonder. As much as he wanted to, there was no point in cursing at them. They’d chosen to follow orders rather than conscience, just as they’d embraced darkness. Pleas or sermons wouldn’t change that, not in a day at least. Likely not in a year either.

“Are you going to tear our families apart?” he asked, voice weary and drained from his struggle to keep his emotions tethered to reason.

A dent of confusion appeared between Ife’s brows. Ân gestured to a child of about nine summers clinging to her mother—little Cam and Trân Thị Kim Hoa, the village smith. He pressed his hands together, as close as parent and daughter, before jerking them apart. Understanding sparked in Ife’s gaze.

“No…” She dragged out the word before pointing to him, then Kim Hoa and Cam. Putting her own palms together, she pulled them away from each other.

So, the Mortigeans meant to divide the villagers by gender? Or keep immediate family together but separate distant or non-relatives? Ân supposed it didn’t matter in the end. The tactic would have the same effect: to demoralize and better control their prisoners, keeping the people of Matroi from forming an organized resistance. He figured he ought to be grateful their lives would be spared. Instead, he could do nothing for a moment except silently despise Phan Thị Tiên for not having the decency to die alongside her royal parents five years ago.

“Illuminator.”

The sound of his proper title fished him out of the dark whirlpool of his thoughts. Ân turned his attention back to the village smith. Studied the strong arms hugging her child to her side. Suppressed a flinch as he met the huge, fear-shiny eyes of tiny Cam.

“Illuminator, what should we do?” asked Kim Hoa. Though her expression remained sturdy with determination, her own stare had more in common with her daughter’s than just color and shape.

The question looked far into the future—too far for Ân to see. However, the immediate answer was as clear as the tense, worry-bleached faces turned toward him.

“Go with the heathens. Don’t fight them by force.”

Cries of dismay and protest erupted, but he silenced them with a glare and clap of his hands.

“Give thanks to Cyanos they don’t just slit our throats and raise us back as undead slaves right here. And you forget two of the Radiant Gifts even as the sun shines directly on us: Courage and Tenacity. This may look like the end of Matroi in our limited vision, but surely the god has set us on this path with a purpose. Mortigany may invade our borders and divide us physically, but they do so at their peril. Remember, the word and will of Cyanos goes where we do. So, I say let them bring us deep into the heart of their lands! Watch and listen for the moment the god calls you to action, whether with blade or blessings, then strike with all of your might.”

Hope sparked in his people’s dim stares, rekindling the dying embers of his own. Turning back to the Mortigeans, a vicious breed of satisfaction flexed its claws in his chest to see some of them had rested their hands on their weapons, postures wary. They were wise to be. Resistance took many forms, some only growing stronger the more hardship thrown in the way. First thing was first, however. He had to make sure everyone lived to see another day.

Ân held out his arms, palms up. “Very well. We will go with you as long as you don’t abuse us. Where are we being taken?”

Relaxing only partway in her saddle, Ife gestured northeast. “Camp. _Dejazmatch_ Negasi will be deciding where to put all.”

“There are elders and children with us. Others who have difficulty walking too.”

After a few sharp commands, about a score of Ife’s soldiers dismounted without attempting to hide their grumbling. Despite himself, Ân let the knot in his guts unravel. At least Mortigeans remembered a few basic human decencies. Horses were a precious commodity, always needed on the front lines, so his own people had done their best to pull the oldest, youngest, and most limited in what small carts they had—makeshift litters of branches and blankets when they’d run out of those. Though it had more to do with expedience than mercy, Ân wasn’t about to complain.

He kept the same attitude throughout the march that followed. He didn’t have much breath to spare for it anyhow. The Mortigeans didn’t set a brutal pace, but their speed made it clear they wanted to reach their camp sooner rather than later. Though Ân preferred the open plains of central Matroi and always would, traveling in the heat of summer wasn’t for anyone without a sturdy constitution. The shade of the borderland forests made a journey much more bearable. Still, he plopped down with a sigh on a mossy log the moment they paused to rest a couple of hours later. Buzzing legs stretched straight out is where Ife found him. Helm tucked under one arm, she walked over and watched in silence for several moments while he folded and tucked the prongs of a maple leaf.

“What is this you do?” she asked at last.

“A tradition from my home region. We fold leaves or squares of paper into birds. Vultures or hawks mostly, since they ride the thermals and fly highest. Along the coasts they make kites of gulls or pelicans instead.

She swiped away a trickle of sweat from her temple with a forearm, cuirass clinking with the movement. “Doing why?”

“Well, once you’re done folding, you tell the bird your wishes or prayers, then let it go on the wind to carry your words to Cyanos.”

“No plain here. No wind. No Matroi. Only Mortigany. Old forest. Deep.” Though her tone stayed light, her meaning weighed the corners of her mouth down into a frown.

He paused to stick his hand under one of the shafts of sunlight streaming through the canopy. “Yet Cyanos is still here.”

“Thinking he can hear you?”

“I doubt some trees are going to block him out, no matter how big or old.”

A whole conversation had amassed on Ife’s tongue. Lacking the Matroian words to organize it, however, she could only gaze at him with soft eyes and a hard line for a mouth, as if he were a child tracking mud into the house.

“Many ears, Tin Un,” she replied finally. “Not only your sun god.”

That he couldn’t argue with. Ân watched her put her helmet back on and return to where her horse nosed at the leaf litter, searching for something to graze. As she roused the other soldiers, a strange chill crept up from the base of his spine. He didn’t know what to make of Ife’s warning—if warning it was. The Mortigeans had acted annoyed more than anything else in their dealings with the villagers. They wouldn’t have been so lenient toward anyone who caused trouble, but Ân had confidence the council he’d given his people would hold at least until they were separated.

_No plain here. No wind. No Matroi. Only Mortigany._

Did she mean her own gods were listening? The Mortigeans did have patrons of wind and water and wood, just as Matroi did. What they would care for a lone Illuminator he had no idea.

Unless…

The shiver slithering along his spine sent tendrils to touch his heart. Ân eyed the shade of the trees. The shadows that pooled in the crannies of ancient roots. The hollows and screens of branches that might conceal owls, possums, or other nocturnal agents. But no…Cyanos still had another few hours before he had to leave them in the care of his children, the stars, while he slept. The most infamous member of Mortigany’s pantheon wouldn’t dare show their ghastly face while the sun held sway in the sky.

“I’d like to see them try,” he told the leaf-bird perched in his hand despite the shards of frost stuck between his ribs. "Give me the strength to do what I can, what I must, when the time comes. That's all I ask."

Before the march resumed, Ân scrambled up the nearest tree, ignoring the peculiar looks it earned him from Mortigean and Matroian alike. He nestled his little bird confidant in the crook of the lowest branch. Like all believers, it would find its way to the light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marched into the Mortigean camp, exhausted, dirty, and uncertain of his people's fate, Ân finds out the situation is capable of getting much worse.

Fittingly, the Mortigean camp came into view at sunset. It sat nestled in a dip of the green hills that marked the forest’s end. The thinning trees in the surrounding area had been hacked down, fuel for cook fires and braces for earthen bulwarks. It left the rolling landscape exposed to the eye in almost every direction. When Ân jogged up alongside her horse and implored to stop to perform evening prayers, Ife relented with only a resigned sigh.

So, hands linked, he and the other villagers stood at the crest of the hill, watching the earthly proof of Cyanos’ power sink beneath the horizon. The tears trickling down their cheeks caught the last rays of light like tiny prisms. Between their ritual farewell and wishes for a safe return to their god, Ân noted the muffled jeers and disgruntled rumblings from behind. He shut the ugly sound of the Mortigeans out. Better to focus on the lingering warmth on his face. He’d need reminders of what he was fighting to protect if he wanted to stay strong throughout the bitter stretch of night.

Under the shimmer of the first few stars, Ân and the rest of the villagers were marched into camp. Arranged in two columns, with a line of riders herding them along on either side, they made quite the entrance. The resident Mortigeans made no effort to hide their curiosity. They pressed in all around, pointing and laughing and gawking. Ân’s eyes flit to as many of the figures he could see between the horses, alert for a tell-tale flash of white skin. But no, the grinning faces and gesturing hands he spotted came in natural human browns or tans. He allowed his fists to unclench. No nightborn. Not yet. It made sense. The creatures enjoyed positions at the top of Mortigean society; they wouldn’t sully themselves by mingling with the rabble. With their _herds._

The edges of his fear temporarily dulled, Ân studied the Mortigeans in return. The shorn heads and uniform dress code of the soldiers made them easy to pick out from the camp followers, who came in a dizzying array of variety. Most grew to a similar height, taller than Ân’s own people on average. They tended toward a lean build, but plenty had more solid shapes, whether filled out with muscle, fat, or both. If genders followed separate guidelines for appearance, he couldn’t detect them, not with a glance. Hair could be clipped short or left long, bound in braids or allowed to grow freely, adorned with polished glass beads, shells, or ribbon—this applied to beards as well.

Everyone favored flowing tunics of linen or wool to about the knee, but color, cut, and decoration split off into numerous themes. Some had mosaic patterns along the hems or over the entire garment. Others had feathers, beads, or shells woven into the fabric instead. Scarves and sashes with prints of animals, plants, or geometric shapes made up another trend. Leggings or leather sandals to go along with the rest of the outfit were apparently optional.

Of body modifications, Ân saw only minor ones: small hoops of wood or bone dilating stretched earlobes; metallic rings pierced through ears, lips, noses, brows; swirling tattoos inked into arms, legs, chests—even necks, cheeks, and chins. Many Mortigeans had bangles of copper or silver jangling on their wrists or ankles. Heavy torques or amulets of natural materials but unknown purpose enjoyed immense popularity as well.

Ân pursed his lips. It was as if none of them could stand to be the same as another, let alone accept the original form given to them by the gods.

Their merry little parade passed through a veritable city of tents, causing a stir the whole way. When an enormous canvas pavilion loomed into view above the others, Ân knew they’d reached their destination for the night. The smile that crossed his face didn’t spring from any sense of relief. Sern was…had been…only a village, true, mostly a rest stop for travelers on their way to larger settlements along the border. The Archmagus’ army had been present not far from them, but to defend Sochay and its important river crossing to the north. Had that been captured as well? Had the townspeople been rounded up? That would add up close to a thousand Matroians—possibly enough to stage a counterstrike, if they used wit and stealth.

Rebellious hopes excused themselves to the back of Ân’s mind to await opportunity. The present pressed in to take their place. Ân busied himself with recruiting those villagers fit enough to help distribute the straw pallets and rough blankets the Mortigeans had provided for them into neat rows. He hid his unease with the cloudy, spiny crystal clusters strung along the canvas walls as he worked under the cold silver light they shed. Of course the Mortigeans wouldn’t use crystals powered by the sun; theirs were likely charged under the baleful gazes of the moons. He mentally cursed himself for not thinking to take some of the village’s along. Having something as simple yet familiar as their golden glow would have done much to comfort everyone, including him.

Once his people had been settled as best as could be expected, then convinced that the dried fruit and round loaves of dark bread offered by their captors weren’t poisoned, Ife pulled him aside.

“Come. _Dejaz_ Negasi is wanting to see you.”

Ân’s pulse suddenly filled his whole throat. “Is this Negasi a…”

She valiantly held back a laugh, though her shimmering eyes gave her away. “No nightborn here, Tin Un. Negasi is human like me, like you.”

 _Human like me, like you._ The words hit him like a bucket of water dumped over his head. Ân was granted no time to recover before Ife turned and he had to scurry to follow her outside. She led him toward what he estimated to be the center of camp. The tents improved in quality and design the farther in they ventured.

One in particular snagged his attention from the corner of his eye.

Though it shared a general size and shape with its neighbors, the phantom-white of its walls set it apart. Quite literally—the others had been set up with twenty paces minimum between it and them. Owl feathers tied to the leather lacings of the tent’s seams twisted and twirled in the evening breeze. The scrimshawed skulls of wolves leered from each corner of the roof. Bile from his empty stomach burning the back of his throat, Ân pried his stare away from the ghastly sight. Thank Cyanos the rising moons were still nothing but fingernail slivers. He didn’t want to contemplate what might be brought out from or go on inside those white walls once they waxed full like the ornate depictions painted on the entrance flaps. He couldn’t hide his relief when Ife finally motioned him into a large brown tent just down the way.

Several Mortigean soldiers chattered and gesticulated around a long table as they came in. Keeping his expression casual, Ân went up on tiptoe to sneak a peek as best he could beyond their armored bodies. His heart skipped a beat when he saw maps strewn across the surface. He caught glimpses of tiny trees inked with minute brushstrokes, swoops for hills, a long, winding line of river. His heart stumbled again, falling straight down into his guts this time when he noticed the markers. Swarms of polished pebbles painted indigo and forest-green dominated a long swath that pushed well past the squiggle of river. Pockets of yellow and orange on the opposite side had been entirely engulfed or were in the process of it.

Indigo. Just like one of the two banners hanging on the tent’s back wall. The gray silhouette of a moth, symbol of Mortigany’s nightborn king, stretched its lacy wings across the silk. Ah, but that was right…Zephyr LeMarta no longer sat on the throne. He’d elected Phan Thí Tiên his successor not long after she’d fled to his country and seduced him. She’d done a thorough job of it too—immediately after marrying her the young nightborn had abdicated, gifting his Matroian bride with all of Mortigany’s political and military might. A boon she’d wasted no time in wielding against her homeland.

Ân stared at the green markers that matched The Exile Queen’s own banner, emblazoned with the rearing gold unicorn of her ancestors. His limbs hung as heavy and useless as if they were made of clay. How naïve they’d been. Like all Matroians, Ân had taken for granted that the war would proceed just as it had for hundreds of years. He’d known the dangers involved in living along the ever-shifting border when he’d been sent to serve as Sern’s illuminator. Still, he’d never dreamed Phan Thí Tiên’s vengeance would sweep across the land so far or so fast, breaking the age-old stalemate. His earlier words to the villagers echoed from his memory. What if Mortigany’s invasion not only served to set the faithful up to deliver a mortal blow to their enemies, but to shake them out of warm complacency as well?

“Is this your will for us?” Ân whispered. The breath had nearly been squeezed from his body to make room for the awe filling it.

While he didn’t know whether Cyanos had heard him, a stocky man on the other side of the table certainly did. His shaved head snapped up at the sound of Ân’s voice. He squinted a single, suspicious eye—a gnarled mass of scar tissue was all that remained of the other. Evidence of past battle wounds crisscrossed all the assembled Mortigeans, their armor dented and nicked Ân noted with grudging approval. No sheltered politicians directing battles from a comfortable distance, these.

The man barked a command in his native speech. Instantly, the others turned to face Ân and closed ranks, cutting off his view of the table. He’d thought he known homesickness those first few months after moving to Sern and the border. Not until the combined weight of several stares hit him, though, did he understand what it meant to be an outsider. Wide with titillated horror, gleaming with greedy interest, their eyes roved over the sacred words adorning his skin, his travel-stained clothing, the dusty braid of black-brown hair trailing over his shoulder. Not squirming under their lurid attention wrung every drop of remaining will from Ân. Now he knew why animals in menageries paced endlessly.

Ife spoke into the tense silence, voice stolid and sure. Ân heard her give his name in what must have been an introduction. _Dejaz_ Negasi—for the great block of a man could be no other—gave Ân a look better reserved for something nasty smeared on the soles of his sandals. He spat a reply that had Ife scowling.

“Negasi is offering you two things,” she translated. “Dying or living.”

“Not much of a contest. I’d prefer to keep living.”

“Then you staying out of seeing. Negasi is wanting you dead. He is hating Matroi. Hating Phan Thí Tiên more.”

That much they had in common. “I’ll be sure to stay out of his way. Although, it might be a challenge if I’m going to be held here a while.”

Ife turned toward her superior and said something with the lifted end of a question. The reply came punctuated with a snort. More important, it contained a single word Ân understood. A word that set his ears to ringing long before Ife repeated it.

“You are a priest. All priest going to Lumina. Sending you tomorrow.”

“What about the villagers? What will happen to them?”

She posed this question to Negasi and was sneered at for the effort. The derision oozing from his response leapt the language divide with ease: _What, worried for the poor, sun-sick Matroians?_ Though her jaw tightened, Ife’s tone remained reasonable…at first. It gained a growl and flashes of teeth as their exchange escalated. Then the other Mortigeans waded in with their own pointed opinions until Ân started edging back toward the exit, half afraid, half hopeful they’d fall on one another like wolves battling for dominion over the pack.

When the supporting poles were rattling, threatening to come crashing down, Negasi’s shout finally rose above the din. The soldiers hushed with the same alacrity they’d had jumping into the fray. Their superior huffed, scratched the patch of ruined flesh that used to contain an eye, and grumbled to Ife.

“Others going to different places,” she told Ân, face flushed but expression back to calm as calm could be. “Some farm. Some make. Some fix. All work. Part of us now.”

 _No Matroi. Only Mortigany._ Ân held in a shiver. The villagers would live to see another dawn—he had no power over their fate beyond that. He had to trust Cyanos to see to the rest.

“Thank you. That’s all I needed to hear.”

Negasi was grateful too; he dismissed them with a curt wave and word delivered with too much force to be anything besides a curse. When they left, Ân breathed a sigh filled with almost as much relief as he’d had going in.

Until he spotted what waited for him in the middle of the way back. He froze in mid-step. Ife followed suit a moment after.

The revenant standing in their path smiled at them both. Its pointed teeth gleamed in the starlight; the same navy-blue of the sky filled its eyes instead of iris or sclera. Dully, Ân wondered if they would turn black as the night grew darker.

“Good evening to you, Lê Thịnh Ân.” No fault could be found with either its inflection or tone. “I’ve been expecting you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ân learns the difference between what was said and what was meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been quite a while, but I'm still at it.

“I beg your pardon?”

Molars appeared as the revenant’s smile stretched wider. It had been a young woman in life, tall and lithe. Now, marked by death, its deep umber skin had gone dull and taken on a tinge of gray, like it had been sprinkled with a light dusting of ash. The prominent cheekbones, once pretty, had become sunken, giving the creature a constantly sharp, hungry look. “I bring you good news,” it continued as if he had never spoken. “Your prayers have been heard.”

Thought, action, speech—Ân could recall the names of such concepts but not a clue on how to perform them. Composure on the verge of dissolving into helpless tears, he looked at Ife. The soldier didn’t spare him a glance, keeping her eyes fixed on the revenant. Though she hadn’t slipped into a fighting stance, her hand had come to rest on the grip of her sickle-sword. Her stillness made it hard to tell whether she breathed, but he had no doubts that her reaction would be swift if the revenant moved wrong.

The possibility of violence blew the swirling haze of confusion and dismay away from his mind. Straightening his shoulders, Ân took a step between Ife and the revenant. He didn’t understand why a Mortigean might oppose a creature they allowed to serve as a priest. He had no idea what the thing might want from either of them, or what it would do to get it. What he did know was that Ife had been fair—even kind as far as circumstance allowed—to him and his people. He wouldn’t let her risk punishment or harm by some grinning horror on his account.

“What do you want? Speak plainly.”

Quirking an eyebrow pierced by two small silver hoops, the revenant evoked a convincingly human air of irritation by clucking its tongue. It plucked a stray bit of string from the flowing sleeve of its shroud-like robe. “I just told you. Maybe I didn’t make it simple enough.” Its dry, cracked lips twitched into a smirk. “Got word. Deal done.”

Ân bristled at being spoken to in flattened tones and amputated words, like they were farmers haggling over the price of a pig. “You have three seconds to make some sense—in Heaven’s Speech—or I’m walking away and pretending I never saw your cursed face.”

“Rude. But more stupid. Oh, _fine_ , have it your way,” the revenant finally spat, abandoning its mocking Earth’s Speech when Ân spun on his heel. The ivory beads at the ends of its long locs clinked as it tossed them back over its shoulders. “I’ll repeat myself, but only because I don’t want to listen to the complaints from higher up. Are your ears open this time, Illuminator?”

Turning toward it again, he folded his arms across his chest and waited.

“I _said_ that your prayer was received. Do you understand now?”

Though he continued to scowl at the creature, Ân’s mind remained a blank page. The order of the revenant’s words lined up correctly. Its tones had hit the appropriate highs and lows at the moments they should have. Yet he could extract no meaning from them. He saw no reason they should be spoken to him, in the middle of a filthy, noisy camp far from his home.

Unless.

_No plain here. No wind._

Unless…

_No Matroi._

Tears of Cyanos, there wasn’t any reason besides…but how could that even…

_Many ears, Tin Un._

Horror welled up in his middle, threatened to flood his lungs, and spilled out through his skin as beads of clammy sweat. Ân shook his head as if that could undo anything.

The vicious, pointed smile returned to the revenant’s face. “My work is done here, I see.” It turned and sauntered back to its gruesomely decorated tent.

Only they weren’t done. No, no, no, no, no. It didn’t get to tarnish his last hope, dust off its hands, and just walk off. He would have answers or he would have the thing’s sneering head. Ân surged forward, shrugging out of Ife’s grip as she shouted for him to stop. Fury made a passable enough replacement for courage that he didn’t hesitate to slap aside the tent flaps and march right in.

“Get back here! Why would—”

His outrage guttered the moment his sight adjusted to the dim interior. Ân skidded to a halt halfway inside, joints locking up so fast he nearly fell over. Only his jaw remained loose, dropping although no sound could squeeze past his constricted throat.

Within, the tent walls were draped over with layers of gauzy black netting. Fragments of glowing crystal hung on the threads in intervals from roof to floor like dew lacing a spider web, casting a dim silver glow. The effect might have been enchanting if not for the faces.

White. Utterly still. Men. Women. Children. Dozens stared at Ân with eyes as deep and dark as the revenant’s. No, with eye _holes_ he realized over the rising tide of terror threatening to drown his mind. Masks. Plaster masks cast from people. He could see a ragged edge around a nostril here, a hint of texture from the sheer cloth within a forehead there. Though his heart stopped charging and bouncing off the prison bars of his ribs, Ân couldn’t repress a shudder from rattling his teeth. He’d heard of the Mortigean practice of making a mold from the dead’s faces, but had never imagined he’d lose a staring contest to several dozen examples.

“I can take a casting for you for a silver knuckle, or goods and services of equal value. To be dedicated only once you pass, of course.”

Ân jumped at the revenant’s mocking voice, then cursed himself. He glared at the smug creature like he wasn’t still shaking with the urge to fight or flee. “I don’t want anything from you except an explanation.”

“I was told to give you a message and I did, word for word. I don’t know anything beyond that, and it’s not my problem if you don’t like what you heard. Want to complain?” It lifted its arms and gestured to the eerie walls. “Tell our god yourself.”

Ân lunged, grabbing two fistfuls of the revenant’s white robes. “ _Shadyrus is not my god!_ ”

The creature stared down at him, one corner of its mouth hooked in an unimpressed downtick. Had it grown taller? No—the thing was just so alarmingly light that Ân had yanked it clear off the ground when he’d taken hold of it. The cloying smell of resins and spices enveloped him like a cloud of invisible gnats, tickling his nostrils and throat: myrrh, frankincense, amber, especially cloves. Ân dropped the revenant in time to stumble back, suck in a breath, and double over with the force of a sneeze.

“Ugh. Cover your mouth, cretin,” the creature scolded him. “I may have already died, but that doesn’t mean I want your filth spraying onto me.”

Sleeve pressed to his nose, Ân breathed as slowly as he could, letting the overwhelming smells fade away. “Do you douse yourself in perfume to hide the decay?” he asked once he was able.

“Don’t be stupid. We stop rotting the moment Shadyrus reanimates us—we wouldn’t be much use if bits of us were falling off all over the place. Still, our bodies _are_ dead in most respects, so many of us choose to have them filled with spices or herbs. Keeps the scavengers from trailing after us wherever we go.”

Ân blinked. “Filled?”

Its brows drew down into a sharp V. “Do you really want to know?”

After a momentary consultation with his imagination, he shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. Now, are you going to keep pestering me with questions, petition our god, or get out?”

His mouth opened to protest the use of _our_ again, but the revenant cut him off.

“There are two possibilities here, Illuminator. Either your precious Cyanos didn’t care enough about you and your village to listen, or you weren’t reaching out with the intentions you told yourself you were.”

Although his lips parted once more, no sound passed them. His denials were simply too weak to crawl out of the rapidly sinking pit of his stomach.

None of it could be true. And yet…there he was, as the revenant said. A test? To discover whether he would remain true to his faith when left on his own? Cyanos demanded much in his service, but he wasn’t a cruel god. Temptation? Mortigany was night and death’s stronghold. The turning tide of the war had swept up thousands like Ân, people ripped away from everything they knew and loved. Attractive prey for Shadyrus, who would see the chaos as an opportunity to poach devotees from their greatest enemy—especially after their triumph of corrupting Phan Thí Tiên. No peace accompanied the theory, but it did chase off the doubts trying to roost in Ân’s mind.

With the nagging thoughts gone for the moment, he finally noticed the sound.

At first, it made him think of leaves stirring in a breeze. Before he remembered the edge of the forest lay far behind the camp, any stray timber cleared to leave an open view of the surrounding hills. Movement flickered in the corners of his vision. Ân threw a desperate look the revenant’s way, but it offered nothing except a tilt of its head that made him think of a bird eyeing a wriggling worm.

He didn’t want to look. Not for any treasure in the world. But he’d taken vows. Confronting the darkness was his duty. More than that. It was the choice that set him apart from a potter, a soldier, a scribe, an acrobat—any of the types of person he could have become just to earn coin. He was an Illuminator of Cyanos, Lord of Light and Life and everything good folk held dear.

So, despite the stiffness in his neck and terror sitting on his bladder, Ân turned and looked.

Empty eyes blinked back at him. Without muscle or bone, plaster lips moved. The lack of throats and lungs didn’t stop the masks from whispering to one another, like a restless crowd waiting for a performance to begin. Not until a sudden hiss from one in the top left corner went up did they fall silent. They angled themselves to peer down, up, and over at Ân. As one, in the voices of old and young, male and female, they spoke.

“You asked for strength, Lê Thịnh Ân, but that was not what your heart cried out for.”

A sigh that smelled of crinkled autumn leaves flowed from the masks, rippling the sides of the tent. They opened their chalky mouths in unison again, but Ân didn’t wait to hear what they had to add. He sprinted out the way he’d come, the revenant priest’s whoops of laughter chasing him through the flaps. He didn’t stop when he collided with Ife, who’d been eavesdropping just outside. Ân just scrambled to his feet from the dirt and continued to run. By some miracle, no one shot him full of arrows or cut him down. He fled all the way to the enormous tent housing his people without incident, finally collapsing to hands and knees in front of the entrance. That’s where Kim Hoa and a young man—Sa’ng, the miller’s oldest son, was it?—found him, shivering and sweating like a hard-driven horse.

“Illuminator.” Kim Hoa bent, reaching for his arm to help him up. “What happened?”

Ân recoiled, startling both villagers. Better that than spread whatever corruption he carried, though. “I’m…” He swiped stinging sweat from his eyes and smeared grit across his brow. “I’m all right. Just don’t…It’s best if you don’t touch me.”

They exchanged wide-eyed glances, but made no more moves toward him.

“What did the Mortigeans tell you?” asked Kim Hoa.

“Are they going to sacrifice us?” Sa’ng blurted, obviously unburdening himself of a rumor that must have started circulating.

_Either your precious Cyanos didn’t care enough about you and your village to listen, or you weren’t reaching out with the intentions you told yourself you were._

Ân had to pause to swallow back a sob. He didn’t deserve their trusting, hopeful expressions, but he had no right to strip them away either. “No. Cyanos shield us, we’re going to live.”


End file.
